


we're buzzing like that no vacancy sign out front

by r1ker



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 10:25:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6191386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1ker/pseuds/r1ker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>blake shelton wrote the title, that angel</p></blockquote>





	we're buzzing like that no vacancy sign out front

He's been asked a couple of times if he's ever ended up doing more than he's expected for the President. They're mostly prying questions meant to jar him out of his reverie only a man entrusted with protecting the First Lady and the President could have, but Edward answers them as truthfully as he's allowed. No he doesn't do grocery runs, he can't sign for any package not confirmed safe by the Secret Service, and he's never slept over at the Underwoods' residence before.

 

That last one might be a lie.

 

It's a lie born from a late night the President couldn't avoid at any cost, fueled by a single light on his desk burning bright even into the wee hours. Edward sits by the door in his designated chair, doing anything to stop himself from succumbing to the exhaustion causing his eyes to drift shut every few minutes. He recites the alphabet forwards and backwards, counts the books lining the shelves making the walls of Frank's office, even goes so far as to count the floorboards before Frank spots him.

 

"If you want to shut your eyes and rest," he murmurs, pen still scratching lightly at what Edward hopes isn't an act meant to bring a group of people to their knees with the hand of the law, "I won't be offended. Someone like you needs your rest." Frank snorts a little as he flips the page to the packet of papers, jots something down on the back before continuing on. "Not much of a threat to be had if you asked me. I highly doubt an assailant would descend from the ceiling and take me with how they've retrofitted the ceilings here."

 

Edward makes a sleepy noise, not quite a yawn but something more than a sigh. He wants nothing more than to shed his suit, shower, and redress in clothes not heavily starched and creased, but his job is not over until the President's day is. And that could be anytime, him being at the mercy of the President's ministrations as part of the job, so being present is key. "Doubting someone only makes them more likely to do it, sir. And I'm not going to be caught sleeping on the job." He tries to sound defiant but it comes off soft when his last few words are lost in a slow intake of breath serving as a prelude to a yawn. He's tired down to the bone and wants more than anything to sleep but like all good things in his life he'll have to wait for it.

 

He doesn't have to wait long, maybe ten minutes, for with a sigh Frank rises from his seat, grabs his jacket off of the back, and turns out the light on the desk. Left to illuminate the room is the singular light in the hallway, not enough to allow Edward to fully have the President in his sights. The agent makes do and stands close to the doorway to escort him back to the residence, but Frank lingers in the middle of the room for a second, standing just before the desk contemplating something.

 

"Sir?" Edward asks when the silence in the room grows to be much to heavy to be reflection. The President doesn't say anything, gives what Edward can make out as a headshake in response to his words, and steps closer. The air between them becomes charged by way of their closeness and Edward barely registers a gentle hand to his elbow. The fingers of it steeple just where his arm joints, gripping just enough to wager control should he call for it. Edward's sleep deprived body sees it as a prop, a place to relieve the heaviness bearing down on the soles and balls of his feet, and automatically leans into its solidarity. The President makes a noise in response, understanding and something Edward hopes isn't concern. Following the noise comes the tightening of the grip, expanding into an entire hand on the upper portion of Edward's arm.

 

The last thing he would want was for him to be worried about anything other than performing his job. Edward's job was to worry, to fret, and the President's was to rule.

 

And for a second, blindly in the face of the developing situation occurring between the two of them, Edward ponders the notion that maybe the President rules him. It wouldn't be at all unreasonable considering all they've done together. All they've seen, participated in, witnessed signals an unbreakable sort of understanding, connection far beyond physical.

 

"If I put all of the people who work for me into perspective," the President explains quietly, tone in no way reflecting that they are the only two people in the room and not in a crowd like it suggests. "Put them all onto a grid, some falling near the bottom where they've done me no use and a few, a very small view right up at the top where they ought to be for working as hard as they do, you'd be one of them. And don't think for a second that goes unnoticed."

 

He lets out a breath slow, keeps his hand where it's been for longer than Edward would have ever thought possible for someone like him, and pulls Edward closer to him. Their shoulders connect, any speaking done between the two of them now needing to be done over the other's shoulder. "I work and I work, deal with whoever comes in my path, not really _wanting_ to see a single one of them, so I anticipate none but two. You are one."

 

Edward thinks he's at a loss for words after that, mouth opening only to shut several seconds after he realizes there's no words to come out. What he does do is nod in that same way the President had done earlier, like he's acknowledged the words but not their worth. Then the President's hand is on the side of his face, cupping his cheek to let the fingers fan out warm, turning him to press his lips lightly to Edward's.

 

He doesn't mean to inhale sharp enough to cause that admonishing noise to leave the President so quickly. It's about all his brain can think to do in a situation like this but he seeks contrition by involving himself entirely in the kiss handled entirely by the President. It starts out slow, explorative even, but even Edward's not prepared for how it gets escalated. Soon he has no choice but to turn around and face him entirely so that they don't strain something, and two arms wrap around his waist, a foot easing between where his two are spread apart to brace his legs.

 

"I appreciate the sentiment in calling me sir," Edward hears just faintly against the static crackling in his ears, "but if only for tonight, call me Frank. There you belong to me, but here let me be yours." Now Edward's shaking his head, incredulous for what the President – _Frank, he's Frank, let him have what he wants, you've always been good about it in the past_ – has got to say to him. So he backtracks, dips his head in assent and lets Frank sink back into him, hands now cradling just under Edward's jaw to tip him up for more of his mouth. There, at Frank's complete mercy now rather than his disposal, Edward opens up more, allowing a breath to be taken in just as Frank's tongue slips into his mouth. He moans, can't stop it for how it threatens to take the last brick out of the already weak foundation of his head.

 

Frank takes heed, pulls back to break the kiss only to a sound of Edward's unabated disappointment, and takes him by the hand. They walk with light steps back to the master bedroom, Edward stumbling with how low his body's running on oxygen, and with that pliability allows himself to be gently pushed back to land on the bed with a gentle thump. The quilted nature of the comforter becomes even closer to him when Frank divests him of that cursed suit, lets it tumble to the side of the bed and then to the floor, and he leans back into it when his skin is met with Frank's mouth.

 

It's as if Frank's kissing him on the mouth again like he was before, instead with lips and teeth meeting the soft flesh of a belly, raised curves where his ribs rise to the surface of his skin like they've done in all the years of having a slight figure. Edward finds out here that Frank is by no means cursed with an uneven bite, confirmed even more when one of his hands tries to find Frank's head and is instead met with a neat line of grooves. Knowing he's been marked causes his next breath to come out as a whimper, and as if he's got any other way of solving this, he lets Frank continue.

 

"You've had trust come under fire a few times since you came to work today," Frank pontificates with his mouth hovering just above a nipple, pausing to reflect on the day the both of them have had. Not entirely out of the blue were the incensed figures crossing both of their thresholds, accusing them from their places on the ground when they were in their usual positions far above. Edward had grown skilled in ignoring them, not considering them as much of anything, but Frank had taken note of everyone bearing an ill word. Then they'd be taken care of, pushed to the wayside in word or in person. "But I bet you didn't think it'd carry over into the night." Edward shakes his head again, not really having any reason to object, and gasps when the front of Frank's teeth graze his nipple then the skin surrounding it.

 

He's prepped, not being able to see it but feel it – something he's always appreciated about something like this anyway – and for a second he's taken aside by how eased Frank is taking this. Even getting the lube, a condom, were languid activities, drifting off into the bathroom or off of the bed to rummage in the nightstand seemed to be done like they were nothing. Edward's skin prickles with goosebumps when large hands grip his thigh, part them to angle them up, and Frank stops just short of entering him.

 

"Do you trust me?" Edward's burning up, Frank's leaning over him to where there's no air flow at all between the press of their two bodies, and in a way he has no choice but to gasp out, _yes, yes I do_ as Frank pushes into him. Edward rocks back and forth as a rhythm is unearthed and adopted, the burn caused by his back sliding against the sheets not being painful for a second as he submits to Frank entirely. All the while he gasps for air, searches for breath turning to grunts when Frank brushes his prostate. As he tries to find his lungs again he grows hard between their two bellies, friction from Frank fucking him more than enough to cause him to come once, twice, before Frank's even come to that realization. With those Edward moans not from the feeling but the overwhelming relief. This had been a long time coming, felt more like a parched man coming into contact with an untainted well rather than the rush of absolute pleasure coming provides.

 

Frank is silent, breathing as steady as if he were maintaining conversation with someone and not fucking them within an inch of their life. Edward wouldn't have expected any less from what he's always considered a rather composed man, but that's thrown out the window when he's overwhelmed again by the sensation, lets his cry out instead of biting it back.

 

"I trust you, I trust you, sir," Edward groans and groans to quickening motions, and his previously useless hands touch Frank's shoulders in an intimate way he hasn't allowed himself just yet tonight. He's not answered right away – maybe Frank is beginning to crumble under this after all, speeding up and causing the headboard supporting their bed to shove against the wall – so he repeats himself. While he thinks Frank might think his pleading tone is all in the name of sex, Edward can't tell him enough that it's sincere. He would do treacherous things in the name of Frank Underwood; Edward would disobey just about anyone else to bring Frank ease if the situation so called for it. And part of it's the overload his brain is rapidly coming up on. "I trust you, I trust you."

 

Frank is lying entirely on top of him when he comes, heaving for breath after he's done filling the condom. Edward's hands find their way to his back and rest lightly on the shoulder blades and soon easing him up and off his body to the other side of the bed. Frank turns him over with a hand to his arm and presses his forehead to Edward's, eyes still closed but chest falling more easily now. Edward touches him in these moments, grants himself the feel of a cheek and the slope of a shoulder, but recoils when it's concluded Frank has come back to himself now.

 

He rises from the bed with a bit of an unsteady gait and Edward steadies him with one hand to Frank's. It's not meant to be imploring for anything more than providing stability but Frank interprets it as such, bends down to kiss Edward again before straightening up to retire to the bathroom. While he's gone Edward stares at the ceiling, more exhausted than he was earlier in the night, and he's getting ready to fall asleep right here in the President's bed before Frank rejoins him.

 

"Claire is to be in New Jersey for the weekend," he explains as to the absence of the First Lady's personal items – her coat, Edward can see, is gone from the wicker chair in the corner, and he wasn't questioning it until now, after he's fucked her husband – and the lack of her correspondence in the night. "Stay for your rest and what you will in the morning."

 

Edward isn't one to disobey, not after the track record he's gathered. "Yes, sir."

**Author's Note:**

> blake shelton wrote the title, that angel


End file.
